


our friends have all but left us (they departed many years ago)

by Gingersnaps (K___P)



Series: Not-so-traitor traitor Wilbur fics [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Beaches, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Traitor Wilbur, hurts for a bit, niki nihachu arrives in this one woooo, until it doesnt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K___P/pseuds/Gingersnaps
Summary: Right now, there are only about two things Wilbur can rely on never changing: Schlatt's obsession with the economy and self-preservation, and Phil.Maybe he can expand that list, just a little. Just for Niki.OR: the one where wilbur recovers from his time in manburg and with schlatt, phil regrets making hot chocolate for him due to marshmallow-related crimes, and niki asserts her place as god
Relationships: Niki | Nihachu & Phil Watson, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: Not-so-traitor traitor Wilbur fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971445
Comments: 11
Kudos: 178





	our friends have all but left us (they departed many years ago)

**Author's Note:**

> god this was so fucking difficult to write you dont even KNOW . god i had to force this out of my brain at gunpoint
> 
> also yes its just over 4k words. whats your point. writing 3k words in one day is tough work but someones gotta do it
> 
> anyway i love beaches . no i will not stop writing beaches . i fucking love beaches

When Phil opened the door, he wasn't really sure what he's expecting; the rain was unrelenting and torrential, hailstones crashing against his windows, thunder rumbling in the distance.

Those fleeting thoughts vanish from his mind as he takes in Wilbur, shaking and pale and terrified out of his mind.

"Come in, come in, what-"

"Don't tell Techno or Tommy I'm here. Don't-" his voice, scratchy and rough, broke, and Phil instinctively softened. "Don't tell anyone I'm here, okay? Please, Phil, I-"

"Calm down, mate," he started, pulling Wilbur into a hug and kicking the door closed on autopilot, mind whirring round possibilities. Earlier that month he'd gotten several angry letters from Tommy about Wilbur's 'betrayal', followed by a short, sweet, and borderline hysterical (at least, for his standards) letter from Techno. It had just been a few lines, begging him for help tracking someone down.

Looking back, maybe he should've picked up on the context clues, but, well. It didn't matter at the moment, not with his arms full of his shaking son. Mindlessly, he whispered comforts and promises, slowly shuffling back into the warmth of his home. The yellow jumper Wilbur was wearing was ripped and muddy, half-dried stains that looked uncomfortably like blood almost entirely over one arm.

(He didn't want to think about the _why _of it, not with Wilbur's track record of disappearances.)__

____

For an eternity, they just stood in the hallway, Phil running a hand through Wilbur's matted hair. Slowly, the younger's sobs faded into the pitter-patter of rain and crackling of the fire.

After minutes, or what could have very well been hours, Wilbur slumped like a puppet with cut strings. It took all of Phil's reflexes, honed from years of sparring, to catch him before he fell. Carefully, not wanting to jostle him after what looked to be a hellish time, he laid Wilbur on the sofa, leaving briefly to find a blanket to drape over the unconscious boy.

Safe in the knowledge that he probably wouldn't wake up for a while, Phil sat down at his kitchen table and began to think.

No matter what Tommy said, the harsh words and cruel taunts laced with hurt, he doubted that Wilbur would truly betray them. From what he'd seen of his time in L'manburg, the matching revolutionary outfits and bright grins and sparkling eyes, it seemed as if he genuinely adored their little safe haven. Never a week went by without a letter from him, describing some sort of new building or plan they'd all come up with (and if they were all borderline illegal, well, it wasn't Phil's place to judge).

He'd gushed about it for hours on end whenever they met, waiting for Tommy to leave before he admitted how proud he was of his right-hand man, how useless he'd felt during the duel. His voice had lost that careful edge it had during the war, instead rising free and bright, laughter coming easier and cheeks a glowing red.

God. Phil buried his head in his hands for a minute, taking a deep breath. He didn't have to figure this all out immediately; the politics of another world paled in comparison to the reality of his missing son's return. For now, he would do his best to make Wilbur feel safe again, and if that meant keeping him away from his brothers, well.

They'd burn those bridges when they came to them.

\---

He wakes up, cosy and comfortable, a heavy weight on his legs and gentle sunlight warming his face. A fresh smell, like that of open fields and mint leaves, wafts through the air, and he can hear birds chirping from somewhere outside.

He wakes up, and freezes. This is all wrong - where are the sheets of freezing rain, endless bombardments of hail? Where is the ever-present scent of gunpowder and overturned dirt? Where is the numbing silence, filled only by Schlatt's never-ending chatter?

_Where's Schlatt?_

Wilbur jolts upwards, only to bite back a half-scream at the rush of agony filling his mind, blocking out his thoughts; his vision blacks out for a second, but he grits his teeth and pushes upwards anyway, even as he has to lean against a nearby table. Nothing registers to him, the haze of panic and bewilderment blocking out anything non-essential.

He just needs to go go _go._

Standing up only serves to further irritate whatever burns he retained post-respawn, his back sending shockwaves of _pain_ up and down his spine. Even so, he makes it to the doorway of the room, nails digging crescents into his palm. His surroundings are familiar, recognition tugging at the back of his mind, but the specifics of where he is escape him.

(He's scared of the calmness that threatens to bring him down; his survival instincts are the only things he can trust, now. He can't let them be dulled.)

Leaving the room he woke up in behind, Wilbur grits his teeth against the roaring pain in his arms, glancing around the hallway. There was a staircase, but he really didn't want to try brave that, especially with the shooting pains that blinded his vision every time he took a step on his left leg (it was probably broken; the ankle clicked funnily whenever he moved) or moved his left arm (a sort of sleeve of burns stretched from the back of his palm to somewhere past his shoulder blade, as far as he could feel). 

That left him with three options: an iron door, sturdy and strong; a half-open door, snores wafting from behind it; or a closed wooden door, light shining through a crack but no noise coming from inside.

Thinking for too long gave him a headache, giving all his aches and pains time to catch up with him, and so Wilbur headed towards the wooden door, footsteps quiet and bordering on delicate. Ever since he was a child, he'd been unnaturally good at making no sound when he walked, light-footed and confidently trodden.

(It had been what drew Schlatt to him, at first, their pranks often hinging around Schlatt's distractions and Wilbur's sneaking around. It was what allowed him to survive so long, even while he was being hunted.) 

The door swung open with ease, and even though it made no noise he stood stock-still, waiting to see if he'd woken up whoever was with him. (Phil? Was he with Phil? Everything was so jumbled, he couldn't think straight-) When the silence remained unbroken, he let himself breathe, slipping in through the small crack.

He was in an office of sorts, windows letting the morning sun stream in and illuminate the desk, covered in scattered papers and half-finished drawings and diagrams. On one wall was a set of photo frames, each differing in size, and a set of banners hung on the other, colourful and vibrant. A crown rested in a glass case, with another photo frame resting beside it - the photo showed four people, all ridiculously tall, with matching crowns and wide grins. 

(Wilbur looked away from the youngest-looking blond, standing in between a pink-haired man and someone who looked like himself. His gut began to churn, even though he didn't know why.)

Curiosity tugged at him, and he found himself drifting over to the desk again. A closer look revealed the papers to be letters, each addressed to Phil and covered in the same messy scrawl - _Tommy's_ handwriting, he registered. Beneath then was another, in a slightly more unfamiliar script, elegant and loopy, but he decided to focus on Tommy's letters first.

 _Dear Phil,_ the first one read, _I'm so fucking mad right now. I don't even know what to say, except I'm about this close to marching up to Wilbur and punching him in his stupid fucking face. He betrayed us, Phil! He led us on and turned round to stab us in the back! I swear, if he ever comes near me, I'll rip him into pieces. Techno says I'm being too "impulsive", but I can tell he's just as pissed as I am. We trusted him, Phil! He's so manipulative, I don't know how I didn't see it bef-_

He stops reading, his hands shaking too hard to continue. The letter underneath is dated for a few days later, and despite himself, a sick sense of curiosity compels him to read it.

_Dear Phil,_

_Tubbo came round today, saying he needed my help grabbing his shit from Manburg. When I passed the White House, Wilbur didn't even fucking look at me - can you believe his nerve? I asked Tubbo about it, and he said that he heard Schlatt and Wilbur laughing. Like, laughing together. I don't know why we were so fucking dumb, thinking he could actually be trusted, when all he does is use us for cheap labour-_

_Dear Phil,_

_Techno visited Wilbur today, trying to get him to come out with him, Tubbo, Niki and me, which is obviously a good deal, right? Well, apparently not, cause Wilbur completely blanked him, and then went to go play speedrunner with Schlatt! I bet he never even cared about us in the first place, the two-faced bastard-_

_Dear Phil,_

_Me and Techno decided that since he's already chosen his side (Schlatt, the traitorous piece of shit, I bet he'd get along real nicely with Eret now), we should move the entrance to Pogtopia so he can't get in. If he snitches to Schlatt, we'll be in real trouble, but I bet I could get a couple hits in first-_

A sob catches in his throat, choking him. He couldn't breathe past the lump in his throat, even as his heart pounded in his chest. 

There was no way that Tommy didn't hate him - this was proof, written down in black and white. And- And he and Techno moved the entrance to Pogtopia, just so he couldn't find them again. 

(A memory, floating up in the back of his mind. Techno, sitting outside Pogtopia, sharpening his axe. Wilbur had been coming back to pick up some of his things when he saw the other. Despite himself, he'd relaxed - he knew that Techno, of all people, wouldn't hurt him, that Techno, of all people, was _safe_. He opened his mouth to speak, but his brother cut him off.

" _If I ever see you near Pogtopia or any of its residents_ ," Techno says, slow and heavy, " _I'll cut you down where you stand_."

Wilbur doesn't stick around long after that, crimson gaze burning into his back.)

Time is slipping away from him, ground disappearing from underneath him, but he can't bring himself to move. Schlatt only wants him to be toted around as a puppet, neither Techno nor Tommy want to even _look_ at him, Tubbo and Niki probably pity him at best, hate him at worst-

Warm fingers wrap around his freezing ones, and he can't bring himself to grip onto the letters any longer.

\---

When Phil wakes up, warm and comfortable, it takes him a few minutes to recall everything that had happened. Lazy light casts long rays along his bedroom, the sun already halfway down the sky. Birds chirp from somewhere outside, calling to each other as they swoop and dive between lush green leaves.

But then everything hits Phil, right as he hears a _crash_ from outside his room. He scrambles out immediately, barely pausing to slip on slippers and grab a sword before he's out of the door.

At the very end of the hallway, the door to his office is open where it had been shut when he'd fallen asleep. A slightly wheezy sound was coming from inside, and his heart began to pound as he pushed open the door.

Wilbur was frozen in front of his desk, shoulders shaking as he clutches some papers to his chest. His breaths were coming in uneven gasps and chokes, as if he was struggling to breathe. Phil racks his mind, desperately trying to remember what was on-

Oh. Tommy's letters.

Tommy's letters, full of curses and seething hatred for Wilbur, jabs and jibes he would've regretted as soon as he'd sent the letter off. Tommy's letters, denouncing Wilbur, branding him as nothing more than a traitorous bastard. Tommy's letters, that Wilbur should not see, under any cost.

Those letters.

Phil cursed himself, rushing forwards to pry the paper from stiff fingers. They opened easily - too easily, considering Wil was one of the most stubborn people alive - and the letters slipped out, floating the the floor. They lay there on the carpet, an innocent _Dear Phil_ staring up at him.

He's going to burn those letters the next time he gets the chance.

"Wil?"

"They hate me, Phil." Wilbur's voice lost its smoothness, velvet ground rough. He found himself at a loss for words; what could he do? Wilbur would know if he was sugarcoating, but he refused to further his spiralling.

"I don't think they could ever _hate_ you, Wil." is what he settles on, gently taking the other's hand. "Let's not dwell on what they're saying, though, alright mate? I can make some hot chocolate, and we can talk this all over."

There's no noise of protest, so he takes it as an agreement. On the way to the kitchen, Wilbur's fingers catch onto his sleeve, reminiscent of his childhood.

Phil shakes his head to himself, smiles, and pushes open the kitchen door.

\---

Phil had left Wilbur in charge of starting the hot chocolate, leaving to grab some of the most freshly-baked bread; though, given that it was past midnight ... oh well, he figured, at least it was still relatively warm. A little life had returned to the younger's eyes, and he'd huffed at Phil's fussing, but there was a small grin spreading across his face anyway as the older left.

When he returned, he walked in on Wilbur miserably trying to salvage some overboiled chocolate milk, and had to take a moment to himself. Stepping back into the room, he shooed him away from the stove, dipping a spoon in to check the taste.

"Jesus Christ, that's sweet, Wil," he mutters, too tired to make any exclamations. "How much sugar did you put in this?"

Wilbur avoids his eyes. He kicks something under the table.

Sighing with no real heat behind it, Phil turns back to the stove, pouring out the old milk and heating some more up while Wilbur bustles around his kitchen, setting out two mugs. Stirring in some hot chocolate powder (if he had to make proper hot chocolate right now, Phil might actually snap), he waits for it to dissolve evenly before picking up the saucepan.

He pauses at the sight of a whole bag of marshmallows, the bag disturbingly large and full for such tiny sweets. If nothing else, he can say he tried to put a stop to it - that much sugar would probably kill _him_ , let alone Wilbur - but the younger had looked up, his brown doe eyes pleading, and he had folded like a house of cards.

And that was how they ended up sitting at his kitchen at one am, each nursing a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Somehow, Wilbur had managed to find a hidden love for marshmallows over his trips and was taking great joy in dropping them in one by one. He would watch, enraptured, as they melted, while Phil began to feel a little queasy after the seventh one was added.

(Wilbur had taken a sip of the drink sometimes after the fourth, and looked a little sick, so he was definitely adding more to torment him. Phil hates his kids sometimes.)

\---

("I don't know if I can face Techno or Tommy, Phil," Wilbur whispers later, as Phil slides a pancake onto his plate. "I-I know you probably want me to make up with them, but I just-"

"I know, Wil. You don't have to." He says at the same level, even as his heart breaks a little for Wil. He slumps, tension leaking out of his body, and he goes about his day a little more cheerfully.)

\---

The deep, familiar rumble of a portal being used rattled the windows and doors, crops swaying and waves crashing in the aftermath of the quakes. Phil could feel the vibrations down to his bones, teeth rattling in his skull. No matter how often it happened, it never became more enjoyable, or even tolerable, to go through. It often felt like standing beside a creeper while it went off, an explosion that left you aching for hours.

...an explosion.

A dull _thud_ from the other room alerted him that, yes, Wilbur had made the comparison, and he chastised himself for not figuring out that, _hey, maybe the kid who got blown up last week wouldn't like explosions. _When he arrived in the doorway, he was greeted with the sight of Wilbur panicking, his eyes wide and hands shaky. He looked through Phil, gaze darting around the room, never focusing, never settling.__

__God, he was an idiot. Phil crouched down next to Wilbur, tapping his arm lightly, and waited for his eyes to focus on him. The other's breathing was ragged, uneven in a way that made Phil just want to wrap the other in a hug, but eventually clarity returned to his gaze._ _

__"Heya mate," he started, voice hushed. "I invited Niki over to visit, 'cause she said she wanted to see you. Is that-?"_ _

__He was cut off by Wilbur, who all but launched himself into his arms, mumbling something into his shoulder (later, Wilbur would tell him it was a _thank you_ , his cheeks red with embarrassment) before he took off on stumbly legs towards the door. The doorbell rang not even a second later, and Phil allowed himself a smile at the sound of his son's overjoyed whoops floating up through the house, mingling with softer, but no less joyful giggles._ _

Standing in the doorway, hooded cloak discarded on the floor, was Niki herself, clinging to Wilbur as they shook with hysterics, tears mixing in with their laughs. Both of them looked a little disbelieving, as if the other would disappear if they didn't clutch them tight enough. Despite her long journey, she didn't seem fatigued, face glowing with happiness as she glanced past Wilbur's shoulder.

Phil pulls away from the wall, leaving them to their privacy, and making his way to the kitchen to grab some food and drinks for them. He didn't realise how much he'd missed the carefree way Wilbur smiled until it disappeared, replaced by small half-smiles and blank eyes.

After a moment of thought, he also grabs a potion of healing for Wil, knowing that his burns had definitely been pulled. Sometime after their hot chocolate ran out, Wilbur showed Phil the burns stretching across his arm and back, and the way his ankle was bent oddly. It looked ... rough, for lack of a better word, but they'd taken to a salve made from the kelp that grew off the shore, and a regular health potion.

Wilbur and Niki had moved to the sitting room, curled up on the sofa and facing each other, hands linked as they talked a mile a minute. Niki's spare hand flew everywhere in wild gestures that Wilbur followed dutifully, neither willing to release their hold on their friend, not after so long spent away.

He decided not to interrupt, dropping the potion down next to Wilbur and the tray on the table, ruffling their hair as he left. Behind him, he could hear playful shouts and groans, Niki's laughter soon being joined by Wil's.

\---

They spend a lot of time on the beach outside his house, once Wilbur's burns have lessened into slightly discoloured skin and his ankle has been set and well on its way to recovery. Given that Niki's bakery was right next to the coast, and L'manburg's walls had offered a clear view of the sea, they'd become accustomed to the constant crashes of the waves. (Phil doesn't point out the glaringly obvious, _at least, until the Election_ , instead opting to set up a few blankets and an umbrella for them to lie under. Wilbur's grateful for it.)

It wasn't uncommon for the L'manburgians to spend days on the docks, playing water sports in boats, going swimming along the coastlines and building mini replicas of L'manburg, walls and all. Hell, Quackity had joined a few times, and Dream had crashed once or twice, before leaving with a well-natured huff when Tommy "accidentally" kicked his mini-community house over.

Niki seemed to have the same idea, as she shot him a playful grin before grabbing a bowl (Phil didn't have any buckets; he'd turned down their idea of using one of his hats) and running towards the sea. Wil huffed, grabbing one for himself before setting off after her, catching up easily. He doesn't fill his up and leave immediately, though, and he sees Niki tilt her head from where she's already halfway across the beach. 

He blinks back at her, before sitting down and digging out a moat. She narrows her eyes, but turns back to her project anyway, sneaking glances at him every so often.

"So suspicious, Niki," Wilbur calls over to her, pouring as much hurt and outrage into his voice as she can. To her credit, she doesn't even turn around. " _Ouch!_ Niki, you wound me."

A quiet " _Good_ " floats back to him on the wind, and he remembers that this is the woman who told her President and Vice President to starve to their faces.

He decides to quit while he's ahead.

They spend the next hour and a half in concentrated silence, Phil lying down on a chair he dragged out and set up under the umbrella, and the two ex-L'Manburgians entirely focused on their own projects.

It's perfect.

Wilbur makes his way over to the sea under the guise of refilling his water bowl, halfway through a mini replica of the Camarvan. After the first few times of fake-outs, Niki had stopped turning round to glare at him; all to plan.

With abnormally light footsteps, he made his way over to his friend, carefully avoiding spilling any of the seawater. Her sand-L'Manburg looks good (a lot better than his. unfair), but that's not what he's here to ruin.

Without any preamble, he overturns the entire bowl over her head, water spilling out and drenching her hair completely.

" _WIL!_ "

Let the records show, Philza will absolutely leave Wilbur to die at the hands of an angered baker if the situation arises.

\---

They were sitting on the beach just outside Phil's home, waves lapping at their ankles as they watched the sun set. Niki had left them some twenty minutes prior, darkly muttering something under her breath that sounded like _Manburg_ and _Schlatt_ wrapping them each in an almost suffocating hug. Her blonde hair was streaked amber in the light of the sun, the golden buckle of her belt glinting. She had refused to wear a suit, according to Wilbur. His brown eyes had glinted with admiration, and Phil had to hide his smile.

("Look after him, okay, Phil? I'm scared that ... when he returns to the SMP, even if it's only for a day, things will get a lot worse. So, please, just-" she glanced around, gaze softening as it landed on Wilbur, strumming his guitar with a peaceful look on his face, "make sure his time here is good."

He had looked her in the eyes, nodding once, instilling as much determination into the action as he could. It seemed as if she got the message, as she brightened, leaning over to ruffle Wilbur's hair. "I left him a couple little somethings in the kitchen. They're his favourites, from back when we celebrated L'Manburg's freedom. Something to tide him over 'til I come back."

And with that, she left, the sweet scent of freshly-baked bread and summer roses lingering in the air. Wilbur pretended that he wasn't too affected, but he'd wilted a little at her departure.)

"...Phil?"

He glanced over, letting out an inquisitive hum. Wilbur's gaze remained fixed on the mini-L'Manburgs, standing tall and strong against the waves.

"Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> this is longer than the first part hsbfhjebfjehf rip can you believe that ive had writers block on this for two weeks straight


End file.
